Bewitched, Battered and Bedeviled
by JMK758
Summary: A 'What If' story featuring our favorite Investigators in other lives. 'What if the Protestant Reformation had never taken place' and 'What if, on July 4, 1776, Congress had Rejected Virginia Colony's Proposal for Independence'
1. Accusation

Disclaimer: NCIS and its various incarnations are owned by Belisarius Productions and I neither make money on this nor am I trying to claim any characters.  
Rating: T or Ncis-17  
Reviews: Please do. I look forward to your Reviews, but _please_ don't tell what happens to those who haven't read it yet.  
AUs: Those who follow my work know I am fond of AU stories and of putting our favorite Investigators into the thick of them. Beyond my two excursions into Star Trek's Terran Empire in my Enterprise series stories 'Face in the Dark Mirror' and 'Empress Sato', I explored the early days of the Empire in 'INCIS' and 'Shepherd of the Lost'.  
I brought our friends aboard the Enterprise-E in 'Judgment on Risa' where I was the first to create the SCIS and within my Mystery Series I took them aboard the Love Boat in 'On the High Seas'. I let Abby experience her counterpart Gail Sciuto's life in 'Abby in Wonderland' while Michelle Palmer took a literal step Through the Looking Glass in 'Transition', where she encountered the Agents whom we see every week on our television screens.  
The essence of the AU story is an exploration of the concept 'What If?' For instance, 'What if the Protestant Reformation had never taken place?' or 'What if, in 1776, Congress had Rejected Virginia Colony's Proposal for Independence?'  
Come with me as we explore both of these questions in

Bewitched, Battered and Bedeviled  
by JMK758  
Chapter One  
Accusation

East of the Potomac River, where a tributary commences at Buzzard Point, lies the waterway called the Anacostia, once a busy one where ships of Her Majesty's Navy maintained a base. That is, they did until more than fifty years ago, when the Prince moved all the military forces out to consolidate them with Norfolk, two hundred miles to the south. But the land and its hundred odd buildings did not languish, for as a secure area it was ideal for Purgatory Prison.

Timothy Luke McGee ascends the elevator of the ITS, housed in building 111 of the UCMJ, the structure closest to the river bank. The United Colonies Ministry of Justice has many facilities in this city, though he prefers his own in Silver Spring, Maryland, the territory named in 1632 for Queen Henriette Maria, wife of Lord Baltimore.

The Interrogation, Trial and Sentencing Facility is the processing center for new prison inmates and he's been called south today to deal with another case. Actually, he's been told by the Lord Justice that this is an inflammatory one, a problem that never seems to go away. He doesn't care how disturbing or disrupting it may be, for as an Advocate for the Defense he has a job to do, and his sole interest is that he does it well for God, Church and Empire.

Getting off the lift on the fourth floor, he walks the halls to the entrance of the Trial room and reaches out to the metal panel beside the door. His hand is open wide, the pads of all four fingers and thumb splayed so they will simultaneously press flat upon the plate. In ten years he hasn't done this without a sense of, if not apprehension anymore, at least concern and with a quick examination of the state of his soul. The panel will read his prints and if any one is even the slightest bit off fifty thousand DC volts will end his worries.

Actually he's less concerned about failure of the instruments than in the Will of Deity, for if God has decided it's either his time or that his soul is less pure than he hopes, he'll never know it. He'll touch the plate and Saint Peter will greet him at the Pearly Gate – or something else will welcome him to a much less desirable place.

The door swings inward, revealing the sunken dark and black interior. Apparently his soul is cleaner than he'd feared it might be, but a Knight of the Golden Cross must always be diligent. Sin and corruption are insidious and he must always be on guard. While admission past those Pearly Gates is most ardently desired, he's not quite ready to make the passage.

He halts himself for a moment. This is just the sort of thing he'd just redetermined to be diligent against. 'Not my will, but Thy Will be done.'

x

The black ramp down to the dark well already feels like the descent into Purgatory, something it's designed to do. The large room could be lit, but it's dim, far less lit than the hallway he's just left, and when the door closes behind him he's plunged into the gloom. The dark chamber, to which his eyes will adjust in minutes, is intended to unnerve a prisoner, but occasionally he wishes that it wouldn't play its effect upon Officers of the Court as well.

There are seats ranged on his left, three tiers of eight facing the well. On the far left wall are the only points of light, intended to draw the eye to three formal portraits, the two outer ones lit by baby spots from the right side of the room, the one in the middle an appropriate inch higher, an inch larger and illuminated by a small lamp from above. That one, in a gleaming gold frame, is of course Pope Jesus the 66th, the lamp and the lighter blue paint behind his head than at his golden shoulders combining to effect a halo about the Holy Father. There was a time, so very long ago, when Popes held various Saint's names, but then one enterprising man chose, quite logically, Jesus as he was the Voice of God on Earth, successors copied him and the tradition stuck.

The other two portraits, in more modest silver frames, are Queen Diana - God Save the Queen - and Prince William, Regent of the 42 North American Colonies which range from the Arctic Circle to midway down the isthmus which connects the Northern and Southern Continents and west from New England through the islands of Hawaii. His brother Harry rules the 31 Southern Colonies from mid-isthmus to Good Hope and he can have them. The brothers have nominal control of the American Colonies but it is Diana who rules the Empire.

No one says 'God Save the Prince'.

x

Standing in the black well, barely discernible for their long black robes, in fact only distinguishable from the shadows by their traditional long white powdered wigs, are the Lord Justice Leroy Jethro Gibbs GKGC and Sir Knight Anthony Peter DiNozzo, KGC, who seem to coalesce out of the darkness as he approaches.

Gibbs is the epitome of the Church's Justice in the eternal war against evil, against sinners and those who would fornicate with the Dark Dragon Satan.

DiNozzo, his friendly adversary these past ten years, is both Prosecutor and Interrogator of the rightfully accused and revealed, and his record of success is a most appropriate reward to the devout Defender of the Faith.

On the left side of their robes are embroidered foot high gold Crosses, the material of which, even in the dim light, makes the image seem to float in midair.

"My Lord," he says with a five inch nod of respect, "Sir Knight," he says with a three inch nod.

"Sir Knight," Gibbs and DiNozzo greet him, DiNozzo returning the gesture of honor. Gibbs, of course, inclines his head not at all. "We have only one case before us today," his Lordship says.

At the top of the ramp the door opens, letting a shaft of light into the room and he looks up to see people file in. He then notices Gibbs' sharp thumb point to the dark corner. Taking the rebuke, he moves quickly into the darkness without appearing to hurry to put on his black robe, make certain that the large cross on the left side of his chest is straight and then to settle upon his head his own elegantly curled long white wig. His and theirs are the only moving points of light in the room, for even those who enter to find seats, nineteen in all, obey the requirement to wear black clothing in the darkness.

x

Returning to his counterpart - DiNozzo will prosecute the case for the Crown - and His Lordship, he asks "What is this case?"

"Capital Crime," DiNozzo says. "Husband is bringing the Charge, but there are plenty of witnesses. If found guilty, this one won't make it inside."

McGee thinks he hears pleased anticipation in his fellow Knight's voice, but he tries to focus his attention on his own work. For a Capital Crime there is only one penalty, and the man could well be pleased; he has the easier job. The Law, of course, declares that the Accused is Guilty until Proven Innocent, and it's his job to find that innocence – and in this case in front of quite an audience.

"The accused has a lot of enemies, or am I misreading those faces?"

"They may or may not be enemies," Lord Gibbs says, "but they're out for blood." He looks him full on. "The Charge is Witchcraft."

He walks to a point center in the well, back near the black wall and McGee and DiNozzo take their places, five feet to either side, McGee nearer the illuminated pictures. He expects that their wigs and embroidered crosses are the only things that prevent them from blending into the shadows.

It's been four months since the last clues had pointed to a nest of Witches. He'd thought the last of them had been eradicated, or at the very least that he wouldn't have to defend one for a longer time.

Micah 5:12 says: 'And I will cut off witchcrafts out of thine hand; and thou shalt have no more.'

He's always believed Micah was an optimist.

x

"Bring in the Prisoner," Gibbs says and his voice reverberates through the dark chamber from four black speakers, invisible high in the dark corners. The microphone near the collar of his robe can turn a whisper into thunder and the acoustics in this room are designed to impress and unnerve. The Lord Justice makes them do both well.

The door at the top of the ramp opens a final time and two large men pull a much smaller woman between them. As soon as they're through and start down, someone outside slams the door and the thunderous impact reverberates through the dark room. McGee has often thought the effect a bit overdone, certainly the prisoner - she can be no more than five and a half feet tall - is already scared and that blast made her jump nigh out of her skin.

She's pulled down the ramp, and between her plain black robe and her long, straight black hair she's barely visible even to his dim-accustomed eyes. She's tugged to a particular spot straight on from the ramp so she's positioned to the audience's right near the edge of the well. They release her arms and step back into the shadows to figuratively vanish. The woman stands alone, and even in the darkness Tim can see she's afraid.

If he doesn't do his job well she'll have plenty to fear.

x

Intense white light flares down from deep within the ceiling and up through a wide lens recessed into the floor to bathe her in a four foot wide column against which no shadow can survive. She cries out in both surprise and pain, claps her hands over her eyes, hunched close in her robe. The loose sleeves fall, show that her wrists and forearms are encased in four inch long gleaming metal, round about her forearms yet flat at the backs.

The light column doesn't spread, it's forced into a solid beam four feet wide from floor to ceiling by the recessed emitters and lenses and seems to trap her inside.

"PUT DOWN YOUR HANDS." Gibbs' amplified voice from black speakers high in the black corners stuffs the chamber. McGee thinks if it were any louder it would shake the room. The woman jumped at the first word but she tries, tries again, finally manages to slowly pull her hands away from her face, yet she keeps her eyes clenched against the intense light. McGee sees, from five feet beyond Gibbs, and she's to DiNozzo's left, Asian features on what might be a pleasant face if not for the bruises that cover it, lips swollen and broken in two spots that are still marked with drops of dried blood below a swollen, blackened left eye.

It takes several more seconds before she can work even her good eye open, but she squints against the glare and he knows that, as the white light washes out all else, she can see nothing in the inky blackness that surrounds her.

x

"Who comes before us?" This time Gibbs' voice does vibrate the room. The woman tries to look for the source, but the speakers are all around, lost to her in the blackness. Her world extends only four feet wide and her robe even shines black from the light that blasts up her legs.

"Michelle Maria Palmer," DiNozzo announces, "accused of the Capital Crimes of Spell Casting, Communing with Demons while speaking the language of the Devil Satan, Consorting and Fornicating with the Devil, Spreading Disease through Magic and Causing Deadly Harm to the Community. In short, Witchcraft."

Palmer's eyes are wide in horror, she's deeply shocked by this litany. "No! I'm a good God Fearing woman!"

"Who brings the prisoner to answer these Charges?"

"I do," a voice comes from the audience and the smallest corona of light allows the sight of a figure rising in the shadows, but it's the horror on Palmer's face that's most poignant. "James Thomas Palmer."

" _JAMES_? God, James, no! No, you _can't_!"

"I accuse this woman of Witchcraft – and demand that she not be addressed with my name. She is Lee, not Palmer. Spawn and Consort of Evil, she does not deserve my good name."

"James, _Please_ don't do this. I'm your Wife!"

"I'm having our marriage Annulled."

"JAMES!"

"Granted," rumbles through the chamber. "The prisoner shall be henceforth known as Michelle Maria Lee."

"James, please! You know I'm innocent." She steps out of the column of light toward his voice, blind now in the dim light. "Tell them I'm innocent!"

"RETURN TO THE LIGHT, LEE," Gibbs' voice booms.

"NO! I'm inn–" She screams, head thrown back, body convulsing. She falls backward, lands hard with a shriek as her body jerks, her limbs flailing on the black floor.

x

"Return to the light, Lee." The convulsions stop, leaving her collapsed on her back, chest heaving as she fights for breath. She tries to pull at the steel bands that encase her forearms. Again she shrieks as her body jumps wildly. For longer than the scream lasts the charge blasts her, for when her breath is gone it extends ten more seconds of horrific silence.

Finally it stops, leaves her sobbing, panting on the floor.

"My Lord," McGee says over her cries, "this is extreme. It is not necessary to punish her twice for the same offense."

"No," DiNozzo counters. "The first is for overstepping her bounds, the second for disobedience."

"She doesn't know."

"She's a woman. They are taught how to obey." He looks only now to the crying woman. "Or should be."

McGee turns more directly to Gibbs, figuratively cutting away from DiNozzo. "My Lord, I ask for mercy."

"Mercy is not for witches," DiNozzo insists over Lee's sobbing. "Witchcraft removes her from the concerns given to God fearing Christian women. Exodus 22:18: 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live'."

"But is this charge truth?" Tim asks. "John 1:17 tells us 'For the Law was given by Moses, but Grace and Truth came by Jesus Christ'."

"Yet Leviticus says: 'These are the statutes and judgments and laws which the Lord made between him and the children of Israel in mount Sinai by the hand of Moses.' Those who will not live by the Law shall die by the Law."

"But Matthew 23:23 speaks to us when he says: 'Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites, for ye pay tithe of him and anise and cummin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law; judgment, mercy and faith; these ought ye to have done and not to leave others undone'."

"Return to the light, Lee."

Gibbs' amplified command carries the tone of utter finality, telling her she has lost the chance for mercy. If she is to be shocked again it will be far worse. McGee hopes he's bought her enough time, for he sees his pleas have been useless.

She tries to turn over, but her muscles won't work properly. It takes her several tries before she can force herself to roll over and she slowly crawls, crying, along the floor, her black robe impeding her progress as she kneels over and over on the material, which tugs her face down to the floor until she enters the column of blinding light.

She collapses, her plea nearly lost in tears. "Please. Pleeeease. I didn't do anything wrong."

"We shall see, Lee," Gibbs declares. "STAND" booms through the chamber.

x

It takes her a long time to force herself off the blinding light that blasts through the floor, that crashes down from the ceiling, to force herself upright, but she still trembles, sways unsteadily on bare feet.

"As you were ignorant, this Court was merciful and the lesson mild. Another such display of disobedience and the punishment shall hurt."

"Please, God. Please" she cries. "I didn't do anything wrong. I'm a good Christian. I go to Church every week, I observe all the Feasts and Fasts. Please - have mercy."

"Mercy is not for witches," DiNozzo says. "What do you know of goodness?"

"Mikah 6:8 says 'He hath showed thee O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of thee but to do justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with thy God?'"

"It is well known that Satan knows the Scripture, for by that he deceives mortal man."

But she declares that "Second Timothy 3 says 'All Scripture us given by inspiration of God'."

"For reproof, for correction," DiNozzo bites back. "And Peter warns of such as you, 'which they that are unlearned and unstable wrest, as they do also the other scriptures, _unto their own destruction_ '!"

"Sir Knight DiNozzo," Gibbs says, "call your first witness."


	2. Trial

Chapter Two  
Trial

"I call Leonard Abraham Dabreau," Anthony Peter DiNozzo, KGC, intones.

Michelle knows this man, or rather she knows his wife. They're friends, but she would never be a friend to him.

The recessed emitters over her head and under her bare feet restrict the blinding beams to a four foot wide column, limiting her world to sound. She hears movement but, strain as she does, squinting against the intense whiteness, she can see nothing but black beyond. The long black robe they put her in is lighter, the beam shining up her bare legs.

"Come onto the step," DiNozzo says, "and place your hand upon this Holy Bible."

The other voice, that of her amplified abuser, asks "Do you Swear to Almighty God that the testimony you shall give to this Holy Court shall be the Truth, the whole Truth and nothing but the Truth?"

"I so Swear to God."

"What accusation do you make against this woman?"

"She used her deviltry to break up my marriage."

"I did _not_! Your marriage was in ruins before I ever met your wife." The wide metal bands encasing four inches of her wrists blast electricity through her body. She screams as the charge convulses her. This one is brief, a few seconds only; it leaves her panting, staggering to keep her balance, but it hadn't made her fall.

"The prisoner will remain silent," the Lord Justice's voice booms through the chamber, driven by the large black speakers to reverberate off the black walls.

"Please," another voice, closer to her left, urges. It's the same one that plead for mercy when they'd tortured her before with much longer blasts of electricity through the gauntlets, and this voice is quiet, intense, speaking only to her. "We'll get our chance, but they won't let you interrupt. Please."

x

"How did the accused break up your marriage?"

"She cast spells, used her dark lord's power to turn my Louisa, a good Christian woman, away from me, filled her ears with lies."

"He beat her," she whispers as quietly as she can to her invisible champion. "Every day beat her."

"Have you any witness to this?" comes the whisper out of the blackness.

"Where will _I_ find a witness here?"

"Mister Dabreau," the voice speaks in normal volume, "have you ever beaten your wife?"

"The Good Book orders that a husband will chastise his wife, with whip if need be, to keep her from the mechanizations of the Devil."

"Where is that?" No answer. "Did you do this often?"

"Since the day of the Fall women have been the source of temptation, corruption, sinful seduction, licentiousness and all manner of perversion. Their souls cannot contain piety for long; they must be trained to be good in the same way an animal must be trained. It is the duty of men to be certain that women are put and kept in their places, that they learn to obey. The Good Book says a wife is to submit to her husband and to be obedient in all things."

"It does? I truly cannot recall the Holy Bible saying to beat a wife like an animal."

"Ephesians 5:22 Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands as unto the Lord. Colossians 3:18 Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands as it is fit in the Lord. Hebrews 13:17 Obey them that have the rule over you and submit yourselves. And 1st Peter 2:13 Submit yourselves to every ordinance of a man, whether it be to the King, as supreme."

"That's not _exactly_ what it says," her defender says.

Michelle declares "Exodus 20:16 Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor!"

"Mister Dabreau," Prosecutor DiNozzo, says, "before God can you swear you had a good marriage?"

"Before God," he declares.

"Before God _I_ say you did _not_!"

"The testimony of a witch is not admitted in Court," DiNozzo says.

"Thank you, Mr. Dabreau," Gibbs says, his voice normal this time.

She hears motion and whispers urgently "What happened? Why do you not stop this?"

"Time enough," his whisper comes back. "I'm just beginning."

x

"Mrs. Eileen Lydia Marturano, step forth," the invisible Prosecutor commands.

"Who is that?" her defender whispers while the oath is administered.

"She lives in my building, I barely know her."

"What does she have against you?"

"I have no idea."

"What charge do you make against this prisoner?" DiNozzo asks.

"She used her dark powers to make my baby sick."

"How?"

"Her Satanic powers."

"All right, what were the child's symptoms?"

"He cried for hours, for days, in great pain, screams and cries like the demons of Hell were tormenting him. His face was so red it terrified us. His stomach was hard and nothing we could do could sooth him."

"That's colic," Michelle whispers.

"Your Lordship, the symptoms the woman describes are from colic."

"That's what our doctor said," Marturano bites back.

"If that is the case, how is the prisoner involved?"

"She gave it to him!"

"I did not!" She remembers only in time to whisper.

"Let it go," the voice counsels.

"WHAT?"

"Babies get sick," the voice says quietly, "and he's not here. Nothing can be proven on either side, so it means nothing."

"Have you anything more?" DiNozzo asks the woman.

"That's more than enough to prove her evil."

"Thank you, you're dismissed."

x

Michelle seethes as the man summons "Mrs. Donna Ruth Blakey to the step."

"What does this one want?" comes the quiet, invisible voice. The light around her no longer hurts her eyes, but she can see only a dim bit beyond the edge, a white powdered wig and, a little lower, a foot tall gold cross. She can't see a face under the wig, and everything else in the chamber is lost.

"I don't know. I don't know her," she says as the truth oath is administered and she prepares to listen to more lies.

"What charge do you make against the prisoner?" her tormentor asks.

"I was in the Market last week and saw her pretending to use her cell phone, but she was speaking to her Satanic Master."

"You heard her talking?"

"I did."

"What did she say?"

"I do not know. It was in some Godless tongue from the fall of the Tower. I could make out none of the diabolical tongue, nor at risk of my immortal soul would I want to try."

She remembers that day. "I was _talking_ to my _Mother_!" she shouts. "She speaks Mandarin! I'm Chinese, damn it, I was speaking my native language."

"Your native language is the tongue of Hell."

"IMBECILE! Grow up and–" she shrieks, body convulsing as her contracting muscles fight each other in a fit worse than epilepsy. Her nerves burn. She slams onto her back, partway out of the light, her scream dying with her breath but the charge continues, makes her body jump and writhe as the electricity blasts through her. She's suffocating. She hears the man beside her pleading for her as the seizure goes on and on.

Then it's over, as quickly as it had hit, and she collapses, chest heaving, the air whistling through her dry throat as she pants.

"Matthew 5:22," DiNozzo says. "But I say unto you that whosoever is angry with his brother shall be in danger of the judgment; and whosoever shall say to his brother 'Raca' shall be in danger of the council, but whosoever shall say 'Thou Fool' shall be in danger of hell fire."

"You left out three important words," her defender says from above her as her breath slows, "'without a cause'."

"Sir Knight McGee, control the prisoner."

"If you don't _stop_ ," he whispers from closer to her, but she can't see him; he's probably kneeling beside her, his whisper filled with frustration, "they're going to electrocute you before I can save your life."

x

"I call Dennis David Donahue."

She forces herself to sit up, back into the column of blinding light, to turn over and work to get her feet under her. Her body quivers, her nerves jangle and she can't manage at first to balance herself but doesn't dare stagger out of the light. She plants her bare feet, trembling legs spread to hold her still.

"I don't suppose you can tell me what this man has against you?" McGee - she finally has a name for him - asks quietly.

She shakes her head, half surprised that it works. "I have no idea who he is."

"All right. Just stay calm this time."

"I was walking down the street the other day and saw her. She was shamelessly walking in public wearing a halter that only covered her breasts, her back bare, and on her back are the points of the Satanic symbol."

"Do you have anything on your back?" comes McGee's urgent whisper. "Tattoo? Anything?"

"No!"

"What Satanic symbol?" the Prosecutor asks.

"The five points of the star, the pentagram of Satan."

" _WHAT_?" She barely keeps the outrage to a whisper.

"If there _is_ nothing on your back, this may be what we need. You're sure."

"Yes!"

"DISPLAY THE MARKS," Gibbs' command booms.

x

She expects that they're just going to spread the back of her black robe. She'd noticed when they put her in it that single threads down front and back, from collar to hem, are all that keep the robe intact and she can endure a little bare back to win this point. Hands and arms come into the light from either side, but all four hands clench the collar and give a mighty yank.

She screams as the robe parts, force her arms out and it flies from her body and is gone. She looks down, her nude body exposed in the intense light. Her hands fly to her breasts, to her crotch, but she has fewer hands than she needs. Cringing double, right arm across her breasts, left hand too small to do more than cover her vagina, she has nothing left to cover her bottom and must stand crouched toward where she thinks the audience is if she has a hope of defending that part of her.

The men who'd worked her over had been very professional, her body is covered in dark bruises. No part of her had been spared in the long and merciless beating and now these people see every inch of her humiliation.

"My Lord, this is Infamous!" McGee's voice is as loud as Gibbs' had been, even without the mechanical aid.

"Show the marks," Gibbs' voice booms.

x

The hands come back and grab her arms. She screams as they pull hard, yank her arms wide, expose and turn her until her back is to the inquisitors, which so far as she thinks where they are she's in profile to the audience. She holds her breath, utterly ashamed, but "Where is your pentagram?" her tormentor asks.

She doesn't care who he's talking to. She's sure her back is as marked as her front and she has no doubt they can see anything they want in the constellation of bruises.

"Right there," the man declares. Head down, shamed more than she can endure, she doesn't want to think of what's happening behind her.

"My Lord," McGee's voice sounds gratified and she manages to force herself to look over her shoulder even though she cannot see out of the column, "the witness has a vivid and creative imagination."

"They're right there."

"My Lord," McGee declares, "beyond what was done to her this morning I find from hips to shoulders two small moles, a small birthmark, what looks like a freckle and another spot hardly worth seeing. By no stretch of my imagination can I make this pattern into the points of any imaginary star, pentagram or otherwise."

"Draw the lines," Donahue insists.

"Sir, I have as excellent an imagination as our gracious God would grant me, and can even blot out the bruises. There is no way these spots can be made to form the ends of anything other than a vastly lopsided shape, and even if an improper pentagram were in any way efficacious it is neither upright to the line of her body nor is it inverted."

"That is because of her corrupt nature," the Prosecutor counters, siding with his witness. "She is a woman and therefore defiled from birth as all women are, existing only for temptation, which means that a pentagram need not be drawn as it must be on paper when applied to her body. Satan, the great Deceiver, simply disguises its nature on his servants to protect them."

"If so, he hasn't done a very good job, has he?"

"It is the judgment of the Court," Gibbs' voice declares, "that the marks do not outline a Pentagram and the witness is excused."

x

The men release her metal bound wrists and she crouches low, clamps her arm and hand again to her breasts and crotch, but has to turn about in order to protect her bottom. She tries to hide the front of her body in her crouch but feels dozens of eyes invade her flesh. With the men in the well with her and the audience where she thinks it may be, she can't protect herself at all in these spotlights.

"The presence or lack of a pentagram," the Prosecutor declares, "is no longer relevant because her greater sin has been uncovered."

"What do you mean?" McGee asks. To Michelle it sounds like he's thinking his victory is about to be negated.

"Look at the prisoner," he directs. "The hair is gone from her crotch."

Michelle cringes more deeply, tries to hide herself further, not just with her hand but her whole body. She feels the heat rush to her face.

"This is an abominable display," the man declares. "God has decreed by His act in clothing her so intimately that a woman's sexual organs are to be properly hidden from men's eyes to protect them from temptation, ensuring that even when naked a woman's most shameful flesh need only be seen by her husband."

"Sir Knight DiNozzo, tens of thousands of women remove the hair from their pubes," her defender counters.

"But tens of thousands of women have not been caught in such deplorable sin, Sir Knight McGee; this one has been. Only a wanton whore displays herself so brazenly."

"Sir Knight, this is a married woman, not a street corner strumpet."

"Her marriage is being annulled."

"And we," Gibbs says from every corner of the room, "will not settle this question by debate between ourselves. Call your next witness."

"I call Nicholas Patrick Cronin."

That voice was further away, back at its wonted point and she risks, still crouched and huddled tightly to herself, to whisper "Thank you."

"Don't bother thanking me," the whisper rides a river of aggravation. "We didn't win this one."

"Can I get my clothes back?"

"Not a chance."

x

"Mister Cronin, what can you tell us about the prisoner?"

"That she _is_ a witch."

"Can you be more specific?"

"She visited me, several times, in my bed."

"Is this true?" McGee whispers, sounding appalled.

" _NO_!"

"Describe it," DiNozzo directs.

"I'd be in my bed and she'd appear before me as a spirit. She... well... she had sexual congress with me."

" _I did Not_!" She barely kept her voice low when she wanted to scream it.

"Okay," he whispers back. "Be quiet."

His voice comes from further away and louder. "Mister Cronin, can you tell us about this... apparition?"

"She was, well, I could see through her. She was a spirit, I said. She had long black hair, goblet shaped breasts, her crotch was shaved bare, her labia naked–"

"Let me rephrase, can you describe the apparition without looking at the prisoner?"

"She was young, Chinese and very willing, very wet."

"A wet spirit. And you say you had sexual relations with her?"

"That's what I said."

"A spirit."

"Yes."

"Would you mind terribly telling me how this was accomplished?"

"She would lay each time on the bed and I would put my penis into her hairless vagina."

"A spirit."

"Yes."

x

"Mr. Cronin, don't take me wrong but I should like to have seen that. I mean, did you lay upon her as a man would upon a woman or did you lay face down upon your mattress and–?"

"I f*cked her until she couldn't stop screaming."

"I see. And did anyone else hear those screams?"

"Err, I meant creaming."

"Ah. Did you orgasm?"

"Of _course_."

"And when she disappeared, and I assume she did disappear, she left her … womanly fluids behind?"

"Err, not exactly. I think she took it - them with her."

"Ah. Interesting. I imagine any number of women would love to be able to duplicate that feat. And where did your sperm go?"

" _That_ she left behind."

"Ah. She left it upon the mattress, under you." His tone changes. "Your Lordship, I sincerely doubt this witness can provide much in the way of unassailable proof of these sexual encounters, but if he can I should like the Court to examine it."

"The _Court_ has no desire to do so. The witness is dismissed."

In the quiet, Michelle, still bent low to hide what she can, tries to force a smile.

x

"Sir Knight DiNozzo," booms through with heavy exasperation, "the Court has little desire to attend upon the details of post-adolescent fantasies. Do you have a witness who can provide competent testimony?"

"'And all the Council'," Michelle declares loudly, "'sought false witnesses against Jesus, to put him to death; but found none: yea, though many false witnesses came, yet they found none'!"

"Sir Knight McGee, you have been cautioned."

"Your Lordship, shall I halt the word of God, as it comes to us from Matthew 26?"

"We have already established," DiNozzo says, "how the Deceiver can use the words of God for his own nefarious ends. And I do, your Lordship, have witnesses. I call Frank Joseph Agoglia."

"Oh oh," Michelle says quietly.

"Him you know?" McGee's whisper comes from beside her, but still invisibly. She can only strain to make out that white powdered wig above her in the glare.

"He's a neighbor, his building is across the courtyard from us."

"What's your relationship with him?"

"I don't _have_ a relationship with him."

"Take it easy, we're not sunk yet."

"But we _are_ sinking, aren't we?"

He sighs. "I've had better days."

x

"Now listen to me and listen well. I can still pull this off, but if I can get the dropping of some charges, or even Clemency, I'm going to have to give Gibbs something. You're going to have to give him something."

"I have no husband, therefore no money, no property; what can I give these people?"

"Names."

"What names?"

"The names of the other witches."

"I know no witches. There _are_ no witches. I have nothing."

"There _are_ witches. Tell me their names. I'll be able to bargain with that, get you off. Penance, public declaration that you have amended your life. I can get you a Suspended Sentence. Clemency. It could work."

x

"Mister Agoglia," DiNozzo begins, "would you please tell the Court what you've told me?"

"I've seen the prisoner fornicating with Satan."

"By fornicating you mean...?"

"Having sex with the Devil."

"And how exactly did you see this?"

"My bedroom window faces hers, and on several occasions I've watched her laying naked on her bed having sex with invisible demons. I've heard her calling to them in her Satanic language, flopping about alone on her bed until she orgasmed, then she would turn out the light and go to sleep."

" _I was masturbating_!" she doesn't keep the whisper between them. "James works late nights, lots of nights he doesn't come home until early morning!"

"Sir Knight, quiet the prisoner."

x

"Your Lordship, if I may? Mister Agoglia, the prisoner contends this was masturbation. Before God are you going to contend it was not? Did you at any time _see_ Satan or the demons you mentioned, or any indication that they were definitely present?"

"Your Lordship," DiNozzo counters, "even if it were masturbation and not physical demonic intercourse that does not in any way absolve her guilt. She has confessed to masturbation as an alternative to fornicating with demons, but masturbation in _any_ form is expressly condemned by Holy Mother Church. Sex for a married couple, and that is the only coupling Authorized, is for the express purpose of procreation. Self abuse, and it is very rightly termed abuse, is an abomination prohibited by the Lord God."

"She also does perverted things with her husband," Agoglia declares.

x

"What sort of perversions, sir?" DiNozzo asks.

"She uses unnatural positions, those prohibited by the Church."

"Such as?"

"Sometimes she lays on her side, one leg raised in the air while her husband stands beside the bed and takes her like the strumpet. I've seen her standing, leaning her body back against the raised foot of their bed, legs wantonly spread while he pushes into her while her whole body is made available. I've seen her crouched, knees and elbows on the bed, with him inside her from behind. She consistently takes his penis within her mouth as though that mouth were a second vagina. Many times she sits atop him, writhing like a whore while she raises and lowers herself upon him while manipulating her own breasts, though often he does so as wel–"

"YOU F*CKING BASTAAAARD! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING AT US FOR YOU GOD D*MNED PERVER–" She shrieks, crashes to the floor, jerking wildly. The charge is less than before, for she can draw breath that comes out in more screams as her naked body convulses in the light, her screeches rise in pitch.

"Your Lordship, _please_." McGee cries. "Have _mercy_!"

She keeps screaming, her body jerking to the force until it seems she may hurt herself in addition to the inner torture.

"Your Lordship, _please._ " It doesn't stop. "Please! This is not–"

She goes limp as the charge cuts off, but her screams fall to wails as she weeps, unable to move, able only to cry.

"Your Lordship," DiNozzo says, his voice inflectionless, "we need hear no more testament here on her perversions. Holy Mother Church has decreed that, flat upon her back as she is now, which had to be taught as 'the Missionary Position' centuries ago to savages in savage lands including even these very Colonies before they were civilized, is the _only_ one sanctioned for sexual congress, the woman on the bottom, as this is the sole position which guarantees pregnancy in all occasions. Sex is designed by God solely for procreation and for no other reason, so for her to use it for personal pleasure is a violation of God's command."

She can say nothing, unable to stop crying as DiNozzo continues his Closing Argument.

"She has placed her vagina on permanent display for reasons no decent person should contemplate, in direct violation of God's intent to have it always hidden from the eyes of men. To display herself so wantonly is to spread the vile temptations of the weak-souled sex to pious folk. She has used the powers granted to her by her infernal master to assault a baby, and to appear in spirit form to a man for the purpose of sexual intercourse, and it is reasonable to consider that an additional charge of Spectral Rape should be applied.

"She has been witnessed engaging in sex on top of a man; has substituted her mouth for a vagina, the utmost of perversion, thereby wasting and consuming seed intended by God to bring life to the world; has lain beside her husband and undoubtedly others rather than under them where a decent woman belongs; has engaged in uncounted examples of sexual perversion.

"Galatians 5 tells us 'What the flesh desires is opposed to the Spirit. Fornication, impurity, licentiousness, idolatry, _Sorcery_ ' - her offenses are legion, and 'those who do such things will not inherit the Kingdom of God'.

"It remains now only to settle if these travesties are the result of her dealings with Satan or propagated by other demonic influences."

Michelle lays upon her back, sobbing, half out of the light and over her cries she hears her fate. "Take her. Obtain a Confession. We stand in recess for one hour."

x

DiNozzo signals to the guards, who step in and grab Michelle's arms, yank her from the floor and pull her arms behind her. She screams, tries to fight them and Gibbs touches another button on his control. The bands encasing her forearms flash together behind her back, slam the backs of her wrists together with a loud clang. She shrieks; arms aren't made to slam together like this along four inches of wrist backs without considerable advance preparation.

She stands, chest thrust forward in near obscene display, teeth gritted, face contorted in agony until she can contain it no longer but it must erupt from her in another scream.

They yank her forward and her shrill shriek echoes off the walls as her arms are wrenched more viciously. As she's dragged up the ramp her screams are pleas.

"PLEASE! I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING WRONG! MERCY, GOD! PLEASE! MERCY!"

They pull her through the doorway, the light spilling down the ramp and, as DiNozzo follows, her pleading screams withdraw, fade into silence.

Timothy goes to his preparation station by the lighted portraits of Pope, Queen and Prince, removes his white powdered wig and robe, then turns to the audience chairs, sees people leaving to file up the ramp. Palmer stands where he'd sat, stares up at the door where the black garbed guards had dragged away his naked, screaming, begging wife.

Timothy steps beside the man. "Come with me," he says, his voice laden with sympathy. James turns to him, and his eyes are haunted even in the shadows. "I know a place where we can talk."


	3. Justice

Chapter Three  
Justice

North of Purgatory Prison, in the western edge of the city of Saint Mark's, there's a Pub where a man can get a pint, and a pipe if so inclined. Timothy leads James into the large room thick with the aromas of food, drink and smoke. It's loud enough with music and conversation that they'll have to raise their voices to be heard by someone five feet away, but it's a fun, homey place nonetheless.

The room is a step down, a long bar runs along the left wall, round tables set for two dot the floor and as they scan for a vacant table a woman approaches bearing a large tray.

"Table for two?" she asks above the din. For an instant neither man replies. The woman's figure is most impressive and her black hair cascades down her back and shoulders, lost in her sleeveless black minidress. The word no more covers the dress than the dress covers her body. It's cut straight across so low in front, and pushes up so generously, that her areola peek over the top while the hem might reach an inch and a half this side of Christian modesty provided she's very careful and doesn't sneeze.

"Yes," Timothy pulls his gaze, with difficulty, from the bounteous display. It has been several weeks since he's been here and he considers the place to have improved dramatically, though a Knight of the Golden Cross should always display propriety in his choice of refreshments, so he limits his stares to only when the opportunity to do so presents itself. He resolves not to let his absence go so long again. "For two."

"Errr," James says, staring so intently he could memorize every cell of her body. Her breasts are full and firm and he so obviously prays that they're on the menu.

x

"Right this way, gentlemen." She leads them to the far right corner, and each restrains himself from tracing with a hand the tight curve over the hem. She stops before the table and James sits down but Timothy decides to try his luck.

As she pulls a pad out of a small apron so black it's lost against the dress, he adopts his most suave tones. "I've never seen you before."

"No, sir," she says with a shy smile that she works hard to embolden, brown eyes appropriately downcast. It's slow before he sees the flash of white teeth, and she steals half-shy glances. At six two he's seven inches taller than she is, which allows for an excellent view.

"What's your name?"

"Ziva, sir," she says, managing that smile.

His eyes trace her rounded slopes from areola tops upward. "That's a pretty na–"

x

For the first time he pays true attention to what's above her collar bone and sees, nearly hidden by the shadow of her black hair, the obligatory though small interlaced triangles tattooed into the side of her neck. He sits down with a puff of disgust, disbelieving his bad luck and angry that he'd begun to flirt with her. He looks to James.

"A _Jew_." He focuses his attention on the man opposite him. "Getting so they're everywhere, intruding on decent people."

"Yeah," James says, equally put out. Even over the surrounding noise they make certain she can hear very clearly.

"Yes, sir," Ziva admits quietly, face reddening in shame, for she'd so clearly responded to his flirtation.

Timothy is eye level with her pushed up breasts, but his gaze barely flickers to her face. "We want two Scotches, neat. You think you can manage that without making a mess?"

For an instant he thinks there might be a flash of spirit in those Semitic eyes but it goes back where it belongs quickly enough. "Yes, sir."

She hurries away and he tracks her bare legs until they disappear past a table.

x

"I wanted to discuss your case privately."

"Do you think you can get her off?"

He smiles, flashing back to Michelle's nude body trapped in the column of light; despite the bruises that mark her body like craters "I think I can." He forces the smile down. This is the woman's husband. "But you brought the Charges."

"Yes. I didn't want to do it, but there were so many complaints. She had to come to the Question. But I didn't realize they were going to be so…."

"It's never easy, but they're right about one thing: there is evil in the world, and the price of maintaining God's Kingdom is eternal vigilance. Evil must be discovered, rooted out, brought to the light of day. It's only by protecting the innocent that we can do God's Will."

Ziva is beside them, on Timothy's left, and she starts to set down the drinks from the tray she carries at her shapely hip. Timothy brings his hand behind her thighs, reaches up and gives her lips a sharp pinch. She cries out, in her jump nearly dislodges the glasses and he gives her labia a sharper pinch before releasing her. She looks at him, a fractional second's glare erased just in time. She seems smart enough not to talk.

"You got a problem, Jew?"

"N-no, sir," she gasps as she backs away. "Enjoy your drink, sir." She turns and hurries away.

x

"I didn't think it was going to be like this," James says, staring into his glass. "I'd never have done it."

"You had to. She shamed you, betrayed you, abused your good name."

James looks more closely at him. "I thought you were on her side. You're defending her."

"I do my job before God, both for the innocent and the guilty, but it's His Lordship who decides such things. I can only work. If she is declared Innocent I will take her out of there and she will go where she will. If you take her back, that's up to you. If she is declared Guilty she will receive the punishment. My opinions don't matter."

"I don't even know my opinion anymore. Before I came, I knew, but now... But if she _is_ a witch...?"

"Been a long time since we've had a witch, but the rules don't change. The Church's Officers are charged to root out corruption and evil. Of course," he looks across the room to where black dressed Ziva bends low to service other customers and thereby presents to the room a most impressive display, "one doesn't have to look far for perversion. Half the world is steeped in it."

x

He picks up his glass. "I had to put my own wife down," he says, taking a sip. He'd actually been impressed that the Jew had managed to get it onto the table without spilling it. Her labia had been warm and delightfully soft, and maybe the next time he comes here he'll see if it'll be wet when she serves him.

"Siobhan was her name, as decent, pious and subservient an Irish colleen as a man could ever want, properly obedient – at least in the first years. Then she changed."

"Witchcraft?"

"No," he puts the glass down. "No, she blasphemed against the Infallibility of the Holy Father and the Perfection of Holy Mother Church. I suppose, looking back, I should have seen the signs before things got out of hand. She was seduced, drawn away from the true Faith by those damned 'Free Righters'."

"Free Righters?"

"An underground sect, hard to find though they find printing presses well enough. Police and the Ministry of Information are always a long step behind them. They advocate Rights for women; the Leave to Speak, to Congregate in groups of more than three, even going so far as push for them to have a say in Procreation if you can believe that.

"But when I stressed that the Church and the Pope – Jesus the 7th I think it was, a thousand years ago, and the Pope cannot make a mistake – determined that women, who brought down the human race through disobedience, seduction and corruption just days after the Creation, had to be managed, to be controlled for the good of the world, she came right out and said it: 'Maybe they're wrong'."

"Shocking." He takes from his drink. "What happened?"

"Well, much as I loved her, I had to denounce her to the Church, and she was Called to the Question. She was already four months pregnant. Can you imagine the state of my home had I allowed her to birth a child with such sins corrupting her soul? Corrupt my child with thoughts of women having even one Right?"

x

"What happened?"

"What do you mean 'what happened'? Blasphemy? It has only one penalty. I selected breaking her on the rack. It took an hour because her crimes were so heinous - she actually spread those philosophies, believe it or not - that they had me go very slow. You know, I can still hear her screams for that whole hour. Then when most of her bones were dislocated I put her out of my misery with a .45 to her head." He takes another drink. "I couldn't take her shrieks any longer, they were giving me a headache."

"And the child?"

"Both went into unhallowed ground, of course." He takes another sip. "Somewhere."

"Almighty Father, I hope I have that much strength if my wife is declared guilty."

"Of course you will. The Lord always gives us the strength to do what must be done, no matter how unpleasant it may be."

x

Palmer takes a long draught, sets the nearly empty glass down. "Do you think she'll confess?"

Anthony DiNozzo had been ordered to gain a Confession during the break, to shorten the proceedings. Confessions always make things go smoothly, cut down on the paperwork. Of course, since the verdict was obvious long before Lee was accused or arrested, 'Guilty Until Proven Innocent' always being the standard inherited from England's Common Law...

"DiNozzo's an artist. What came in the Preparation and in the Chamber was only to soften her up." He finishes his drink. "They always confess."

He checks his watch, pats James on his arm. "Time to get back to the trial." He raises his hand, waves Ziva over. She approaches slowly, reluctance vying with fear. "Come on, Jew," he calls. "Traitorous Heathen, move it before we take you out back and scourge _you_ 39 times."

She stops beyond his reach. "Yes, sir?"

"How much?" he grates.

"Five, sir." James reaches into his pocket.

"No, I've got it." He takes out a Luke, for which the Jew pulls from her small black apron a John and a Paul. She has to reach to make the exchange.

"You're sure I can't...?"

"Forget it. I'm being well paid to defend your wife."

xxx

Michelle, still nude, is dragged face down into the dark room after DiNozzo, held by the two burly guards who had pulled her out the door at the top of the ramp, which slams to block out the light. Her naked body can barely be distinguished against the black wall among the black clothed men in the dark, the only light coming from the that directed upon the images on the left wall, those of Pope, Queen and Prince. The best the audience and the black robed and white wigged Court Officers can see is a slim, ghost-like figure that hangs unmoving as she's dragged along the black carpet into the well and that her arms are clamped before her by the magnetic shackles turned so her wrists press together in undoubtedly agonizing position. She hangs limp in their hands, head down and curtained by her long black hair. She's dragged into the dim well, her arms raised to meet a lowering metal hook that's inserted between her forearms. She screams as she's raised by it until her toes leave the floor. But she can only scream so many times before her voice is exhausted and she must give over to breathing against the pressure on her lungs.

The column of intense light flares, confines her in a field within which there are no merciful shadows, and cries and gasps go up from the spectators.

In addition to more bruises she's been scourged, thoroughly and mercilessly. A scourge is a collection of leather straps to which bits of jagged metal have been sewn, its purpose to rip skin from the body or, in cases of multiple strikes, to gouge out deep furrows of flesh, leaving canals of blood and ripped meat.

Bloody trenches deep in her slim body are a road map of agony. Her chest heaves with her efforts to draw air and the blood shines against the intense light. Blood flows down along her raised arms and it's clear she'd hung from the tight clamps while two people, front and back, lashed the tearing metal fragments into her flesh. She hangs as though dead, though blood drips from her bare feet onto the lower emitter. Only this and her loud rasping breaths and straining chest testify to her efforts to cling to life, though the audience sees that death would be a blessing.

DiNozzo wipes a just now found spot of blood from his hand and grasps her hanging hair, raises her face to display even more bruises, blood and swelling.

x

" _My Lord_ ," McGee cries, his outrage near enough to burst the walls, "this is Excessive and Cruel!" He doesn't have to count the number of furrows gouged into her, they're the traditional 39, and he thinks she could well suffocate as she tries to breathe against her own hanging weight. "More than Cruel, it's an _Abomination!"_

"Not so," DiNozzo counters, turning the hanging woman so the audience can learn from every cut, every bruise, every flow of blood. "For hundreds of years this is the prescribed and most effective method of learning the Truth from Witches."

x

"Has the prisoner Confessed?" Gibbs' voice booms from the black speakers set high in the room's black corners.

"No, my Lord."

"No?" DiNozzo might well have declared that water isn't wet.

"No," Michelle's panting whisper stabs through the room, thrust by Hate, slurred by broken lips, blood flowing from her mouth down her chin and neck to mingle with the blood from her chest. "If you're going to kill me, I will not go to my God with a lie on my lips."

He releases her hair and her head drops hard, sprinkles her heaving chest with more blood.

"Your god?" DiNozzo challenges. "Your god is Satan, the King of Lies."

"Your Lordship, please," McGee says, "let her breathe."

x

At the touch of the hidden control unit in his robe, Gibbs allows the woman to be lowered until her bloody bare feet are upon the floor, but when her body starts to sag the cable stops. "Thank you. If I may?" McGee goes to her, signs for DiNozzo to move back to his place six feet to Gibbs' left. Michelle doesn't look up, perhaps can't without help. He doesn't want to touch her, can't find a place where it wouldn't hurt to support her. She can only press on the emitter enough to ease her weight, to gasp for breath. "They might kill you, I won't lie either," he says quietly, his voice only for her. "But I told you how I might be able to get a reduced Sentence, possibly even Clemency."

"What are they going to do to me?" she asks without looking up, eyes closed against the light blasting up into her swollen eyes. "Burn me at the stake?"

"The Church hasn't burned anyone at a stake in a hundred years. But we can still get out of this. You know what he wants, what we can bargain for – the Names of the other witches."

"There are no witches," she tells the blinding floor filling with the drops of her blood. "I don't know any witches."

"The prisoner Michelle Maria Lee," Gibbs intones, "having been tried by competent Authority," despite her agony, Michelle barks a laugh, "she is hereby found Guilty."

"Bastard," she whispers.

"The prisoner being duly found Guilty of the Capital Crime of Witchcraft," McGee runs to him, "it is the –"

"Your Lordship, please _wait._ Please." He crosses the well back to where Lee hangs, her head still down, her knees bent, only enough weight born so she won't suffocate. "He's about to pronounce Sentence. I have nothing left. If I have _any_ hope of affecting your Sentence it has to be now! He wants the names of the other Sinners, and it has to be now. It has to be Right Now!"

x

She presses on the floor, straightens and slowly, every millimeter displaying her agony, Michelle raises her bloody, bruised face. "You want to know," she fights the whisper to the back of the chamber, "who brought the true Evil today?" She draws a deep breath so she can declare as forcefully as she can, "Leonard Dabreau!"

There's a loud cry and greater chaos in the seats as several to-now-unnoticed guards, who stood black in the deep shadows behind the chairs, converge upon the accused.

"Eileen Marturano," she says more forcefully, leaving the Saints' names off and her cries make the chaos rise. "Donna Blakey, Dennis Donahue, Nicholas Cronin," she cries and the loud mêlée spikes. Over it Michelle's voice rises to a scream. "And they're led by Frank Agoglia!"

x

It takes three minutes for the screaming accused and those who would defend them to be dragged out and for something loosely resembling order to be established. Through it Michelle hangs, a gratified smile straining her battered face. Beyond James, who she cannot see beyond the light column, there are no witnesses in the seats. Any not accused and facing the Question have been ejected.

"The Court thanks you for your information. In view of your cooperation, it is the Sentence of this Court that you be taken to the Chamber of Purification, there to have your soul purified of the sins of your mortal body."

The guards step up, take her arms and the force holding the bands together ends. She drops but they prevent her from falling, but she cries out at the hands tight on her wounded body. She cannot walk, yet they pull her to the ramp, ignore her pleas to be gentler as Timothy and James follow.

The door across the hall is their destination, for which Michelle is grateful for she can go no further. She's comforted that the ordeal is over. This last scourging will take months to heal, but she'll heal... somehow.

When the door is opened they see in the opposite wall a thick steel door, three feet square, through which heat already makes the small room stifling. Before that door is a raised set of rollers, and upon those a long coverless wooden box, the raised sides a foot and a half high, two holes on each side. The rollers are flush with the bottom of the steel door. On the cement floor lie two three foot long steel rods.

Michelle shrieks.

And again as her arms are wrenched behind her back and the metal bang is loud in the small room. She wails as her muscles have once again been twisted unnaturally.

When she twists about to her husband and her defender, starts to plead with them for help, she finds them standing impassive and only then does she understand the depth of their betrayal.

Her long cry of horrified denial might as well be silence.

x

She fights as they drag her forward toward the box, kicks, tries to bite, all useless as she looks back to her lawyer. "YOU SAID I WAS GOING TO BE PURIFIED!"

"Of course," Timothy assures her. The guards lift her, each by an arm and a leg, her wild convulsions not affecting them at all as they force her into the box. "The fire shall purify you and set your soul free."

One guard holds her knees down. Timothy takes one of the steel bars and, ignoring her shrieks, inserts it through the first hole. The guard moves his hands and Timothy inserts the bar through the other hole, her knees locked down.

"YOU SAID YOU'D HELP ME, THAT I WOULDN'T BURN."

"At the stake, the Church doesn't do that any more. But you've already been declared Dead. This is to purify your soul."

As the other guard holds her upper body down, Timothy tries to shut out her wild pleas as he inserts the second bar above her ribs. The bar must be wedged in to make it through the hole, presses hard on her chest. She lies upon the heavy clamps that hold her arms wrenched behind her.

The first guard goes past the head of the box and opens the thick steel door. The fire fills the aperture, its roar too loud, its heat robbing breath.

x

Ignoring her pleading, her screams, Timothy goes to James at the foot of the box.

"You must be strong. She's been convicted of Witchcraft, so in the eyes of the Church she's already Dead. But her immortal soul must be purified before it can be set free, and as one who loved her only you can do that."

"JAMES! DON'T! HELP ME! YOU _LOVE_ ME! _I LOVE YOU_! HELP MEEEEEEE!"

"Only me?"

"Only you."

"JAAAMES!"

"We crank this up to 6,000 degrees but it'll take three hours to reduce her to ash."

"JAMES! JAMES HELP MEEEEEEEEE!"

"Be strong. You must save her soul."

"JAMES, _PLEASE_! YOU LOVE ME! DON'T DO THIS! JAMES! _I_ _LOVE_ _YOU_! DON'T! JAMES!"

He pushes the box and it rolls forward, enters the fire.

"JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMES!"

x

The door is slammed, a sound of thunder.

It doesn't muffle her screams.

Nothing muffles her screams.


End file.
